


Cracky Poetry Filks

by alltoseek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Love Poems, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:49:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cracky poetry filks written for <a href="thegameison_sh.livejournal.com">thegameison_sh</a>'s bonus challenge February 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracky Poetry Filks

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Emily Dickinson, T. S. Eliot, Joyce Kilmer, Sappho, William Carlos Williams, and poetry aficionados everywhere!

_With apologies to William Carlos Williams_

 **This is Just to**  
leave a note on fridge:

I have replaced  
the plums  
that were in  
the icebox

with fruit  
you can probably  
safely  
eat for lunch

Forgive me  
an experiment  
in food  
poisoning

 

 _and John's response:_

I have thrown out  
the head  
that was in  
the icebox

and which  
you were certainly  
saving  
for testing

Be angry  
But 'twas decaying  
Such stench  
and so old

 

 _With apologies to Emily Dickinson:_

I heard a bee buzz when I loved;  
The stillness round my brain  
Was like the stillness in the air  
Between the London rain.

The eyes beside had lit with blue,  
And breaths were gathering sure  
For that first onset, when the queen  
Be witnessed in her power.

I willed away my logic, signed  
What portion of me  
I could make assignable,— then  
There interposed a bee,

With gold, uncertain, stumbling buzz,  
Between the dark and me;  
And then the windows opened, and then  
I could observe to see.

 

 _With apologies to Joyce Kilmer:_

I think that I shall never look upon  
A poem lovely as Watson.

A John whose hungry mouth is prest  
Against my lithe body's throbbing breast;

A soldier that looks at criminals all day,  
And lifts his steady arm to slay;

A doctor that may in surgery wear  
A sterile cap o'er his hair;

Upon whose bosom scars have lain;  
Who intimately lives with pain.

Poems by genius may be written,  
But only Mycroft could provide John Watson.

 

 _With apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning:_

How do I love thee? Let me ~~count~~ **measure** the ways.  
I love thee to the depth **(8”)** and breadth **(22”)** and height **(5'8”)**  
My ~~soul~~ **arms** can reach, when ~~feeling out of~~ **logic not in** sight  
For the ends of ~~Being~~ **Brains** and ideal ~~Grace~~ **Genius**.  
I love thee to the level of every ~~day's~~ **night's**  
Most quiet need, by sun and ~~candle~~ **torch** light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for ~~Right~~ **Taxis** ;  
I love thee purely, as they turn from ~~Praise~~ **Sense**.  
I love with a passion put to use  
In my old ~~griefs~~ **cases** , and with my ~~child~~ **adult** hood's ~~faith~~ **reason**.

 

 _With apologies to Sappho:_

I have not had one word from him

Frankly I wish I were high  
When he left, he laughed

a great deal; he said to me, "This parting must be  
celebrated, Sherlock. I go eagerly."

I said, "Go, and be bored within a week  
but remember (you know  
well) whom you leave shackled by ennui

"If you forget me, think  
of our gifts to Hermes  
and all the cases that we shared

"all the knit caps,  
Semtex vests, jumpers and  
scarves twined around your BAMF neck

"rain and dust poured on your head  
and on hard floors bodies with  
all that they most dreaded beside them

"while no voices chanted  
clues without ours,  
no crime solved in London without deductions..."

 

 _And finally, with apologies to T. S. Eliot:_

 **The Love Song of J. Hamish Watson**

Let us go then, you and I,  
When the evening lights up the London Eye  
Like a corpse autopsied upon a table;  
Let us go, through memorised alleys and streets,  
The muttering retreats  
Of restless nights in overnight trains and cabs  
And Chinese restaurants and hospital labs:  
Streets that follow like a tedious argument  
Of unswavering intent  
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .  
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"  
I'll make all clear at the next visit.

At the scene the police come and go  
Talking of my brilliance so.

And indeed there will be time  
To wonder, "Do they ever think?" and, "Do I care?"  
Time to turn back and descend the stair,  
With the thick luscious darkness of my hair—  
[They will say: "How his hair curls like sin!"]  
My swirling coat, my scarf mounting firmly to the chin,  
My suit rich and modest, no adornment needed, no shiny pin—  
[They will say: "I envy his body so lithe and thin!"]  
Do I care  
If I solve the universe?  
In a minute there is time  
For deductions of rapidity which others find perverse.

At the scene the police come and go  
Talking of my brilliance so.

For I have known them all already, known them all;  
Have known the evenings, mornings, and nights yet,  
I have measured out my life with beakers and pipettes;  
I know the voices dying with a dying fall  
Beneath the traffic from outside the room.  
How can I not presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—  
The eyes that I've placed in jars in microwaves,  
And when they are captured, sprawling on a pin,  
When they are pinned and wriggling on the wall,  
Then how should I begin  
To explain all the results of my days and ways?  
How can I not presume?

And would it have been worth it, after all,  
After the bombs, the arguments, the tea,  
Among the wreckage, among some talk of you and me,  
Would it have been worth while,  
To have deduced the matter with a smile,  
To have sorted the universe into a ball  
For an answer to some underwhelming question,  
To say: "I am a genius, come to the wretched,  
Come here to tell you all, I shall tell you all"  
If one, settling a blanket round his head,  
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.  
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,  
Would it have been worth while,  
After the stakeouts and the suspects and the chase in  
streets,  
After the papers, after cups of tea, after the detritus  
along the floor—  
And this, and so much more?—  
It's impossible for you to hear what I mean!  
But as if a rolling suitcase threw dirt in splatters on a  
stocking:  
Would it have been worth while  
If one, settling on a chair or throwing off a coverall,  
And turning toward the window, should say:  
"That is not it at all,  
That is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Mycroft, nor was meant to be;  
I'm a solitary man, that consents to  
Hint toward progress, solve a scene or two  
Clue the police; no doubt, those simple tools,  
Self-assured, glad to be of use,  
Direct yet tactful, and meticulous;  
Full of clear sentence, not a bit obtuse;  
At times, indeed, almost obvious—  
Always, at times, the cool.

I grow bored . . . I grow bored . . .  
I shall wear the bottoms of my pajamas more.


End file.
